


Find Me Here

by skoosiepants



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dogs, M/M, Snowed In, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 08:35:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13566825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: It’s not that Stiles hates his neighbor. Sure, he’s a huge jerkface who wears leather jackets, douchy sunglasses and routinely tries to murder Stiles with his eyes.But Stiles doesn’thatehim. He’s not sure he’s capable of hating someone that smoking hot.Or -Stiles and Derek get snowed in on Christmas Eve.





	Find Me Here

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr for the prompt: i know we hate each other but it’s christmas eve and your flight was cancelled please come inside
> 
> Cleaned up and edited, title from the Weepies, All that I want. Are we still in a Christmas mood? I hope so.

It’s not that Stiles hates his neighbor. Sure, he’s a huge jerkface who wears leather jackets, douchy sunglasses and routinely tries to murder Stiles with his eyes. He calls Roscoe a _hunk of garbage_. He’s got a bombshell probably-girlfriend, Erica, who likes to snap her teeth at Stiles and call him Bambi. He once grabbed Stiles by the scruff of his neck and growled in his face about, uh, a missing newspaper or handprints on his Camaro or something—Stiles was definitely _not_ too turned on to listen properly, and who drives a fucking Camaro in a place where it snows seventy percent of the year round?

But Stiles doesn’t _hate_ him. He’s not sure he’s capable of hating someone that smoking hot. Not to mention the fact that he owns dogs. Plural.

Kira shrugs a little and says, “He’s nice to me.”

“Then why don’t you go ask him for a cup of milk,” Stiles says, staring morosely down at the empty jug.

“I’m not the one in desperate need of Lucky Charms. Also,” she swings her bag up onto her shoulder, “I’ve got a bus to catch.” Her grin is cheeky, but the way she trips over the rest of her luggage kind of ruins the effect.

Stiles sighs and says, “If you’d wait a couple days, I can just drive us both.” They’ve got three days until Christmas—plenty of time to drive the mere five hours back to Beacon Hills.

There’s a break in the mountain weather, though—wind chill holding steady at a balmy 21 degrees, the sun glare even making the snow melt into slick black ice for fun nighttime driving—and Kira’s not going to tempt fate. Stiles wishes he could leave today too, if only to save himself from having to ask Derek Fucking Hale for cereal milk. Unfortunately, he volunteered to take shifts right up until Christmas Eve like an asshole. Ugh.

“The bus always smells like feet,” Stiles tries one last time.

Kira just cages his face in her hands and tugs him down for a forehead kiss.

Stiles slumps into her hold and says, “Tell Scott I love him.”

“Will do, peaches.” She bounces on the balls of her feet right out the front door, slips down the icy steps with a, “Crap, oops,”—Stiles holds his breath, arms out and legs locked, he wouldn’t get to her in time, anyway—and is caught by the strong, manly arms of Derek, who swoops in with nearly preternatural speed, Christ.

His dogs, Josh and Pongo, take advantage of the dropped leashes and wiggle their furry butts right up the front stoop to sniff at Stiles’s crotch and then make themselves at home on his sofa. They’re both doofy lab mixes that ruin Derek’s street cred by routinely eating paper towels and hacking them up on Stiles and Kira’s doorstep.

Derek says, “Are you okay?” with this deep eyebrow v of concern that makes Stiles want to puke.

He’s almost ninety percent sure Derek has an inappropriate crush on Kira, and that Erica approves.

The sad part is that Kira’s going to be moving home when her journalism internship at _Hollow Moon Times_ is done with, but Stiles will still be stuck out in the boonies for the foreseeable future.

No matter what his dad says, he doesn’t see how being the under-sheriff of a sleepy little mountain town can give him real policing experience. While there’s a slim chance Moon’s Hollow is a hotbed of secret mayhem, Stiles was forced to arrest an overweight raccoon last month, and Tim Gareth seems to vandalize the Wolf’s Den pub’s singular bathroom regularly with forestry propaganda just so Kira can interview him.

Kira straightens up sprightly and says, “Oh, I’m fine! That was a total wipe out, thanks for catching me.”

She pats Derek’s arm as he lets her go, his face completely flushed, either from the praise or the frigid wind. He’s probably thrilled to have his hands on Kira. Derek Hale has perfect complexion to go with his perfect lumberjack beard—the quality of it would be pretentious if they didn’t _actually_ live on a mountain.

Stiles has basically been a wind-chapped tomato for the entire five months he’s been living here. He can’t grow even the tiniest bit of well-groomed scruff to save his life, so it’s either look like a patchy bum, wear a ski-mask, or hope that in five years he’ll have the weathered skin of an Alaskan bushman.

None of his options are appealing. He should adopt some Norwegian skincare regimens.

Derek glares over his shoulder at Stiles and whistles for Josh and Pongo, who ignore him in favor of licking the top of Stiles’s coffee table.

Stiles sighs and steps into his boots. He says, “Come on, assholes,” as he grabs his coat.

Pongo barks at him and then disappears into the kitchen.

Stiles jabs a finger at Josh, currently wriggling under Kira’s favorite afghan, and says, “You better not eat my TV remote again,” before heading outside and pulling the door closed behind him.

Derek harrumphs. “What are you doing, Stiles?”

“ _We_ are going to walk Kira down to the bus stop, and then _you_ are going to give me a cup of milk, and we’ll call any damage your monsters do to my kitchen trashcan an even trade.”

Kira says, “I’m fine, though. But, uh,” she frowns down at her three bags, “some help would be great.”

*

As Kira’s bus disappears down the mountain, so does the sun.

It’s snowing again by the time Josh and Pongo scramble past Stiles and into Derek’s waiting arms. Derek has some kind of staring contest with Stiles’s midsection before nodding, spinning on his heel, and walking away.

“Good talk!” Stiles yells after him.

Derek’s shoulders hunch up around his ears.

Stiles only feels a little bad about it, and then he remembers his milk, and how he doesn’t have any, and how Derek totally reneged on their deal, considering the amount of trash scattered around his house.

Then again, Josh is probably going to throw it all up at Derek’s. Stiles smiles a little to himself while he goes for the dustpan.

Five minutes later there’s a knock at the door. Stiles opens it to a half gallon of milk being shoved at him, and nearly fumbles it.

“Here,” Derek says.

“Uh. Thanks?” Stiles hugs it to his chest.

Derek’s grin is sharp and confusing. He waits at the door while Stiles pours just enough for his Lucky Charms and then hands the milk back to him.

Sometimes, when Derek is staring directly at him, it feels like Stiles has swallowed the sun.

It makes him remember how he’d really wanted Derek to like him, in the beginning, and how much it still kind of sucks that he probably never ever will.

“So, um, yeah,” Stiles says, swiping his sweaty palms on his thighs, because it’s so much easier not to be awkward when Kira is there to be awkward for him. “Are you traveling for the holidays, too?”

Derek says, “No,” like he’s in physical pain.

Stiles is pretty sure he enjoys making him uncomfortable.

He’s seen him be openly sweet with Kira dozens of times, but he clams up when faced with the full force of Stiles’s awesome.

Stiles sighs. He hangs on the doorframe and says, “Well, thanks, man. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

*

Living in the mountains, people get creative about navigating snow storms. The problem is that only a moron is crazy enough to actually travel through one.

Christmas Eve morning, Stiles wakes up to a white out. He radios into the station only to find out all the roads are closed. Which isn’t the end of the world, usually, because Kira has a snowmobile in the garage, but he’d probably freeze to death within minutes if he tried to take that all the way down the mountain.

As it is, he nearly freezes to death just trying to get to his woodpile.

He boxes up the crushing disappointment he feels at most-likely missing Christmas and pushes it way down deep in his belly to worry about later, once he’s got adequate heating and checked on his generator—they’ve suffered through three storms since they’ve moved in, having a working generator is pretty key to survival.

They haven’t lived through one quite this bad, though, Kira’s lucky she made it out before it hit. The cold slices through his parka as he tugs off his gloves with his teeth to get the latch unhooked on the generator’s storage cabinet. He checks the fuel, even though he checked it two days ago—never hurts to be over prepared—and then slams the lid shut again with a hiss.

He’s made it back up onto the back porch with two loads of wood before he misjudges a snow-covered step, jams his arm into the railing, and falls face first into the snow.

“Holy fuck,” he says, face burning and raw. “ _Ow_.”

There’s a thirty percent chance he’s maybe broken his arm. He’s having problems gaining enough traction to get to his feet.

And then he hears the sweet sound of muffled barking and calls out, “Hey!” and, “Josh! Pongo! Over here!”

“Stiles?”

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles says, relieved he’s found a human, too. He’s too cold and in too much pain to care that it’s Derek. A Derek who’s traded in the douchy shades and leather for a sensible cap and puffy coat. It’s not at all endearing.

An arm curls around his waist, hoisting him upward, and Stiles grips the front of Derek’s parka tightly.

Derek frowns at him and says, “I thought you went home.”

“Unless you’ve got a sleigh and eight tiny flying reindeer,” Stiles says on a manic laugh, “I don’t think I’m going anywhere.” He straightens out his left arm with a wince, but the lack of complete debilitating pain is a win. Here’s hoping it’s just a deep tissue bruise.

“You’re not even wearing a hat,” Derek says, and then manhandles him up Stiles’s back steps and through the door and into his kitchen.

Josh shakes snow and slush all over and Pongo jumps up to his sink, slurps water out a soaking pot, and all Derek does is say, “Strip,” before disappearing back outside again.

Stiles gives Josh a look and says, “Do you think he means strip _naked_?”

“I mean get out of those wet clothes,” Derek says gruffly, stomping through the room with the firewood Stiles had dropped.

When Stiles makes it out of the kitchen and into the main room, he’s not exactly prepared for the sight of Derek crouched down in front of his fireplace, his sweatpants stretched tight over his ass, a ridiculous beanie pulled down over his ears. His abandoned coat is dripping rapidly melting snow on the mat by his front door, and a lime green knit scarf is hanging on his key hook.

Stiles swallows down the buzzing at the back of his throat, gropes off his coat, and tugs one of Kira’s afghans off the back of the sofa to wrap around his shoulders. His arm is super sore, but the jarring spangles of pain from the initial hit are gone—he’s gonna get colorful soon, but at least he won’t need a brace or cast.

Stiles clears his throat and says, “Thanks.”

Derek turns and narrows his eyes at him, like he’s trying to judge if Stiles took the correct amount of wet clothes off, but Stiles is a little hesitant to lose his pants in front of him, even though they’re soaked from ankle to thigh.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

“Uh. Maybe?” Stiles wiggles his fingers. “I think it’s okay.”

Derek pushes to his feet, hands dragging from his knees all the way up to angle onto his hips, unimpressed with Stiles’s entire existence. “Let me see.”

“You’re awfully bossy,” Stiles says, but he shrugs halfway out of the afghan and rolls up his sleeve anyway. “I banged it on my way down.”

It’s a little red, but Derek gingerly takes his wrist, tilting it this way and that while Stiles holds his breath.

Derek’s hands are warm and calloused, and his thumb sweeps back and forth across Stiles’s pulse point.

Derek says, “You’ll live,” and then, “Your shirt is soaked, why are you still wearing it?” like getting naked with him in the room is perfectly reasonable.

Stiles isn’t a slouch in the fitness department, but Derek Hale is a god, there is no way this won’t be terrible.

Stiles says, “Uh, um,” and Derek says, “Shirt off, now,” and Stiles is pretty sure he’s imagining the heat in Derek’s eyes when he mutters back, “Yes, sir.”

This is so surreal. Stiles has no idea what he’s doing.

By the sound of it, Pongo and Josh are trashing his bathroom. Derek ignores the crashing sounds and just crosses his arms, watching Stiles.

Finally, Stiles says, “Fine, geez.” He drops the afghan and wrestles his shirt off, head ducked and cheeks burning, and when he gets the blanket around his shoulders again, Derek clears his throat pointedly.

“Pants, too.”

Stiles clenches his jaw and stares into Derek’s eyes and tugs on the waistband of his sweatpants, dropping them to the floor with a shimmy. And then, _then_ he remembers that he’s in his own house, and he probably could have just disappeared into the bedroom and gotten changed. Crap.

It’s too late to back down now, though. There is no retreat. There’s only forging onward.

He wraps the afghan more firmly around himself and then shuffles over to the end of the couch closest to the fire and sits down with as much dignity as he can muster while only wearing a pair of Wonder Woman boxers. “Happy now?” he says.

Derek just grunts.

And then he calls for Josh and Pongo, their claws scrabbling on the hardwood floor as they tear down the hallway, and disappears again out the back.

Stiles sinks down into the couch cushions with a dejected sigh.

*

By midafternoon, the storm is still holding steady over the Sierra Nevadas, with a forecasted _second storm_ rolling in right after it. Even if Stiles could manage to dig himself and Roscoe out, the chances of him making it down the mountain in time for Christmas dinner tomorrow are slim. He feels an intense, draining loneliness that has only been staved off for months because of Kira, and doesn’t even bother putting on a happy face for his dad when he calls for an update.

Eventually, Stiles gathers up enough energy to climb into dry sweatpants and a reasonably clean hoodie. His arm is sore but usable, and he dumps a can of soup into a bowl and rests his forehead on the kitchen island as it heats up in the microwave.

Canned goods. They’ve got plenty.

They’ve still got absolutely zero amounts of milk.

He’s pretty sure his Christmas dinner is going to be dry cereal and a bag of cheese curls. He can only hold out hope that the electricity will stay on long enough for him to watch _Miracle on 34 th Street_, since the generator is only strong enough to keep the heat on.

The one consolation? The snow is actually very pretty. He never got weather like this growing up. He’s sure it’s going to get old, fast, but right now he can stare out into the woods behind his house during a lull in the storm, the fat, fluffy flakes whirling delicately in the air, evergreens stark against the white, their massive branches snow-laden and slumped low to the ground. A brave, bright red cardinal flits to his half-full feeder and then away again.

Stiles sighs into the last of his chicken noodle. He’d probably appreciate the view better if he had someone to share it with.

As if conjured from his mind, there’s a knock at the door. It takes him five or ten seconds to shake off his stupor and realize it’s actually a real knock, and then another minute to think about who it could be, in the middle of a snowstorm. And then he hears barking.

Pongo and Josh are the worst behaved mutts in the entire universe. They greet Stiles by shoving their collective noses into his crotch, as usual, and then nearly flipping him over in a bid to get to his kitchen—he can hear the clanging of his spoon in the dregs of his soup as they fight over who gets to lick the bowl.

Derek doesn’t even look the least bit ashamed of their manners.

He says, “The power’s probably going to go off before the next storm hits. Is your generator okay?”

On the one hand, his concern is heartwarming. On the other, he looks like he can’t believe he’s been tasked with keeping Stiles alive.

“It should be fine,” Stiles says, and then for lack of anything better to do while the dogs nose their way into his lower food cabinets, he invites Derek inside.

Stiles doesn’t know why Derek _accepts,_ though. Why he stomps snow from his boots before tugging them off to leave by the front door. Why he unwinds his knit scarf, hangs his parka up on Stiles’s coat hooks. Why they end up on opposite ends of the couch, watching the third showing of _A Christmas Story_ marathon.

Eventually the dogs wear themselves out and conk out on the floor by the fireplace. They look so harmless like that, Pongo on his back, curled into a comma, Josh with his muzzle buried into his paws. Stiles is a little afraid to go into his kitchen and find out what made them so tired.

It’s right around halfway through the fourth time Ralphie gets shoved down Santa’s slide that he figures out that Derek freaking Hale might be lonely too.

In an attempt to make awkward conversation, Stiles says, “So… up to anything for Christmas? Family nearby?”

Derek slowly turns his head toward him. His eyebrows look like they’re ready to leap off his face and strangle him, but the burn to his cheeks over his beard softens his clipped, “No,” enough to make Stiles’s heart pound.

It also makes him reckless enough to say, “Tell me you’re not spending Christmas alone,” like a gigantic asshole.

Derek just arches an eyebrow and says, “And who are _you_ spending it with?”

“Uh.” Stiles swallows hard. “You?”

There’s a long drawn-out silence, broken only by Pongo’s snoring and _you’ll shoot your eye out_. Finally, Derek says, “Okay. Fine.”

Stiles squints at him. “Fine.”

“Okay,” Derek says again, and then turns back to the TV.

Ten minutes later, Stiles says, “Wait, what about Erica?” He’s fairly sure Erica is just a snowmobile ride away, why wouldn’t she be spending Christmas with Derek?

Derek looks…bemused. He says, “Erica and Boyd were supposed to come over, but they’re not going to trek through this storm with a six month old. Maybe if the snow stops…” he trails off with a shrug.

So. Blond bombshell Erica, not Derek’s girlfriend. Good to know. Stiles feels slightly more comfortable about the fact that he wants to climb Derek like a tree, but there’s obviously still the question of: “And you can’t go over there… why?”

Derek stares blankly at Stiles. “They didn’t invite me.”

_Oh my god_ , Stiles thinks. Oh my god, Derek is _precious_ , how could he not have seen this before? There is no way in the history of the world that Erica would not want Derek to have Christmas with them. The dilemma is, though, does Stiles tell him that? Or does he selfishly hoard Derek’s company for his own? Ugh. Sometimes he really hates how he can occasionally be such a good person.

“Derek,” Stiles says seriously, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. “Derek, Erica is at your house _daily_. I don’t know her very well, and I have no idea who Boyd is, unless he’s the V. Boyd at the coffee shop that never saves me any morning scones,” that V. Boyd thinks Stiles is a fucking idiot, Stiles is ninety-nine percent sure, “in which case you’re going to have to make your own judgement, but, uh. _Erica_ will probably automatically be expecting you for Christmas, dude.”

Derek, bless his precious soul, actually looks worried. “You think so?”

Stiles shrugs. “I’d honestly be surprised if she hasn’t left you increasingly aggressive messages, if you haven’t checked your phone the entire,” he checks the digital clock on the cable box, “three hours you’ve been here.” Wow.

“I’m…” Derek fumbles with his pockets, how could Stiles ever think this guy was the devil? “I think I left it at home.”

“Sure you did.” Stiles watches him get to his feet with a wistful internal sigh. So much for company at Christmas.

*

After Derek and Pongo and Josh leave in a whoosh of frigid artic air, Stiles FaceTimes Kira, who screams at him briefly about being engaged before passing the phone to Scott, who looks happy in ways that simultaneously makes Stiles want to hug him and also drown himself in copious amounts of alcohol.

“Congrats, buddy. I thought you were waiting for Christmas morning?”

Scott looks sheepish for three point two seconds before saying, “I couldn’t help myself, she just looked so beautiful—”

Kira excitedly yells in the background, “I spilled coffee all over my sweatshirt on the bus! There was a knot the size of a pigeon in my hair from the headrest! I smelled like feet!”

“—I got down on my knees at the depot, Marge cranked up the Christmas music from her ticket booth, it was _magical_.”

“I’m sorry I missed it, man,” Stiles says, and doesn’t ask why they didn’t bother to tell him immediately, and not wait the two days until Stiles called _them_. That’s petty, and not worthy of the season. He keeps his hurt down deep in the bottom of his stomach—by the time he sees them in person, it won’t even be worth mentioning anymore.

It’s full dark when they finally hang up.

The TV is on mute. Stiles unearths a dusty wine bottle from under his sink and doesn’t even bother with a glass. By the time there’s another knock on his door, he’s on the sleepy side of tipsy, and scrubs a hand over his face as he stumbles over to open it.

Derek’s parka is pulled haphazardly on over a soft looking t-shirt and plaid pj pants, a scarf hanging unevenly on either side of the open zipper.

He starts, “You were—” and Stiles swallows the rest of his words in an ill-advised kiss.

Derek makes a sound low in his throat, but doesn’t pull away. His beard is soft against Stiles’s lips, the cold of his skin melting off as Stiles wraps hands around the back of his neck. He presses hard until he’s sure Derek isn’t going to physically pry him off, and then he softens his attack, tilts their mouths, and licks at Derek’s bottom lip.

Derek’s answering groan makes Stiles half hard, and then Derek is caging his face in his hands, smoothing back to gently tug at his hair until Stiles gives up and bends his neck and head away.

He looks at him through heavy eyelids, zeros in on the way Derek’s tongue slips out, the darkness of his pupils.

And then Derek says, voice hoarse, “You’re drunk.”

“I’m really not,” Stiles says. He’s a little drunk. Mostly he’s lonely, and Derek is hot and sweet and awkward and apparently _single_ , and he let Stiles’s kiss him.

There’s a tick to Derek’s jaw under his scruff. Stiles rubs his fingers over it, and Derek grabs his wrist to tug them away.

Derek says, steadier, “Think about what you’re doing,” and, “I thought you were better than this,” and Stiles’s mind clears up enough for him to say, bewildered, “Better than _what_?”

The disappointment in Derek’s gaze makes Stiles feel like a band of fire is squeezing around his heart, and he drops his eyes before Derek can see the tears gathering at the corners.

Holy crap, he’s a mess. He’s a mess, and he practically attacked Derek, and Derek’s too nice of a guy to punch his lights out. Stiles wriggles his fingers free of Derek’s grip and swipes his palms over his eyes and says, “Wow, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I know you didn’t—” He takes a deep breath, makes himself look at Derek again. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, nodding slowly. “Are _you_?”

“Sure,” Stiles says. _Sure_. It’s his first Christmas without his dad, his best friends are getting married, Kira’s going to move out, he’s living five hours from friends and family so his dad can’t be accused of nepotism, the local coffee shop hates his guts, and he’s just thrown himself at a dude who clearly doesn’t want anything to do with him. Two days ago, he and Derek were barely even _civil_. God, he’s pathetic.

Derek has every right to look skeptical.

He just steers Stiles over to the couch, though, and then gets him a glass of water and hovers over him while Stiles gulps it, slouched down with his legs spread.

Stiles says, “I’m usually better at holidays than this.”

“Well,” Derek says.

Stiles salutes him with his glass and a shaky smile. “Thanks. For this.”

“Right,” Derek says. He still has his parka half on. Boots unlaced. There’s a flush down his throat. Stiles absently stares at it, watching him swallow—watches his chest expand on a deep inhale.

It’s almost an out of body experience when Stiles leans forward, past Derek’s thighs, and rests the glass on his coffee table. Derek’s indrawn breath is almost a hiss, and Stiles realizes he’s practically face to dick with a man who’s _not moving away_.

“You should go,” Stiles says to the bunched waistband at Derek’s right hip.

“ _Stiles_.”

Stiles closes his eyes and tilts his head away. “I’m just…It’s been a long fucking day, dude, and I don’t know how much wine _you’ve_ had—”

“None, Stiles,” Derek says, and the tiniest hint of pity in his voice makes Stiles suddenly want to punch him in the nuts.

He opens his eyes to stare at the fireplace mantel. “Yeah, well. I should be at my dad’s right now, getting drunk on eggnog, celebrating Scott finally asking Kira to marry him, and eating my weight in Melissa’s sugar cookies. I don’t even have a Christmas tree.”

Instead, he’s molesting his neighbor and being sad.

“If I can’t have my dad’s pancakes in the morning, I would just really like to get laid, crap, wait, sorry—” He flicks his gaze up to Derek again, only slightly mortified he’d said that out loud. It’s not like Derek hadn’t already known his intentions.

Although… Derek seems a little more poleaxed by his words than Stiles thinks is warranted, given that he’d tried to stick his tongue in his mouth less than a half hour ago.

“Kira?” Derek says. “Your…?”

“Housemate?” Stiles says, curiously. “Yay high,” he lifts a hand above his head, “foxy, interviewed a local elk deer last week, will stab you with a pen for morning shower rights?”

Derek opens and closes his mouth soundlessly, staring down at Stiles. Finally, he just says, “Huh.”

“Huh?”

Derek flushes and almost stumbles into the coffee table before skirting around it. He says, “Hold on,” and then just up and motherfucking leaves.

*

It’s times like these that Stiles wishes he had a cat. Kira’s allergic, but soon she’ll be gone and Stiles will be free to adopt as many as local zoning laws will allow.

He’s just about to close up shop and call it a night when he hears rustling and barking out front. He yanks the door open before Derek can knock.

Stiles says, “You’re giving me whiplash, dude,” before he fully registers what he’s actually seeing.

Derek has a three-foot pre-lit Christmas tree in his hands, and a plastic bag full of… food?

The dogs scramble through Derek’s legs and scoot inside. For once, Pongo and Josh are too tired to do anything but flop immediately on the floor after greeting him with a few aggressive butt sniffs.

“What’s going on?” Stiles says.

Derek wordlessly stoops to prop the tree up behind the couch. He steps out of his still unlaced boots, drops his parka into a puddle, brushes the back of his hand up over his head to flip off his beanie. There’s a determined look on his face that makes Stiles take a wary step backward.

All that does, though, is give Derek room to push past him and stalk into his kitchen. He puts what looks like eggs and milk, Stiles sees as he hovers behind him in the doorway, in his fridge, and leaves the rest of the bag sitting on the counter.

“Uh,” Stiles says.

Derek moves into his space, pushes Stiles’s back up against the doorjamb. One of his hands comes up to cup the back of Stiles’s neck, the other flattens over his stomach and slides downward.

“ _Uh_ ,” Stiles says again, only with more feeling as Derek’s thumb makes its way inside the front of Stiles’s sweatpants.

Derek says, “You’re not dating Kira,” before opening his mouth up along Stiles’s jaw, and Stiles commends himself on being able to say, “Wait, _what_?” albeit sort of high pitched and breathy.

He definitely didn’t realize that was a thing. Is that a thing? Do lots of people think he’s living with his _girlfriend_? Ugh, no wonder he can never get any dates.

And then his brain sort of stutters when Derek gets his hand fully around his dick. “Oh, fuck.”

Derek has an evil sort of chuckle, but Stiles forgives him for it. This is some kind of Christmas miracle. He really hopes Derek is going to fuck him.

“Yes, Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles is not even the least embarrassed that he said that out loud. He gets results.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, wrapping his arms around Derek’s shoulders, arching up into him. “You’re going to make me pancakes in the morning. That’s what this is.”

“I know it won’t be the same as—”

“Do not talk about my dad when your hand’s on my dick,” Stiles says, and then somehow manages to maneuver them both into the bedroom. Hallelujah.

*

Christmas day dawns with even more snow and a heavy arm draped over Stiles’s hip. He wriggles backward into Derek’s chest with a happy sigh, and Derek huffs into the back of his neck.

“ _Pancakes_ ,” Stiles says, rubbing his cheek over Derek’s bicep.

Teeth gently press into the join of his neck. “Later.”

“It’s Christmas morning, Derek!” Stiles isn’t opposed to some good old-fashioned sexy biting and anything that follows, but on the other hand: “I was promised pancakes.”

A knee nudges in between Stiles’s legs, a hand pressing into his belly to settle him even deeper into the cradle of Derek’s groin.

“Unfair,” Stiles says. “I’m hungry. And you’ll be going to _Erica’s_ soon.” He tries not to sound bitter about it. Maybe he can have leftovers from breakfast for dinner.

“I’m not—” Derek cuts off, moves away and coaxes Stiles onto his back, presses him flat onto the mattress so he can pin him with his entire body. “I’m not going _without you_ ,” he says, frowning down at him.

There’s a serious tilt to his eyebrows, like he can’t believe Stiles thought any different. Like this is obviously more than just hot comfort sex in a snowstorm, duh.

Stiles reaches up, brushes his fingers over Derek’s beard, smiles as Derek nudges into his touch. “Oh.”

Derek kisses his chin. He slides his mouth over his jaw, buries his face in Stiles’s throat with a growl.

Stiles grins harder and says, “So was this a I love you so I’ll hate you type of thing? Because of Kira?”

“Stiles,” Derek says. He slips a hand up under his butt, tugs up a thigh so he can slot himself neatly between Stiles’s legs. “Shut up.”

Stiles is so right, that is exactly what’s been happening. Man, Derek’s been an ass to him for five months; they have so much time to make up.

*

Later, Derek makes Stiles pancakes with chocolate chips and whipped cream while making endearing little disgusted faces, because he’s a pancake purist.

The first batch gets ruined because Josh sticks his entire snout into the bowl and then Pongo chases him around the house.

They take snowmobiles to Erica’s, each with a dog strapped to their chest. V. Boyd’s face still thinks Stiles is an idiot, but he lets him hold Sadie while he carves the ham.

Stiles FaceTimes his dad and Scott and Kira and Melissa and it’s _almost_ as good as being there with them. Next year, he’ll know not to be stupid enough to volunteer for a holiday shift so he can go home early.

Maybe next year Derek can go with him.

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes I write stuff on [tumblr](https://pantstomatch.tumblr.com/)


End file.
